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Saturday, August 7. # # Thanks

I'm in the airlock. Again.
front door remained closed.
Sometimes a little light through the keyhole.
Then nothing.
Waiting.
And nothing.
is not comfortable, and more in the airlock.
chairs may be soft, but all I get tired.
There is another door, not far ajar. But behind it is gray.

And I can not help hoping the sun behind the closed door. A key.

Waiting.

There is reading, yes. Background music too. Companions in misfortune, sometimes. We forget a little.
You dance, swirly, it's Up dizzy. Until they hit a wall corner and fall down the face of impasse. Want

smash that door, destroying it with a machete, the decrease in crumb.

Then calm down, take a Flair L'Hebdo on the coffee table and say that, finally, the four seasons of Vivaldi, that's fine.